


Spared

by gildedeggplant



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4136508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedeggplant/pseuds/gildedeggplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're not going to wear THAT to the anniversary episode, are you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spared

 

_“That is such a funny and ironic t-shirt, Cecil! You’re so clever.”_

_“We love those lederhosen, Cecil! Are they vintage? They have to be vintage.”_

Cecil is lying on his back, limbs splayed like a starfish, in the middle of the fucking whispering forest. The trees have been wooing him like this for half an hour or so, but he feels no urge to put down roots, because he is actually impervious to approval at the moment.

He’ll have to tell Carlos about that: he discovered some science! This does count as science, right? The antidote to the whispering forest? The fact that you have to be completely ambivalent to your own fate in order for it to work presents sort of a snag, but still.

Carlos. He will be happy with Carlos. With Carlos, he will be somewhere else, at any rate. He will change locations; the grays and browns of his life will turn to charcoals and tans, and he will feel. He will feel something.

“Cecil.”

His eyes must be closed, because he doesn’t see the person who is addressing him, but the person is using Earl’s voice, so he’s just going to go out on a non-whispering limb and assume it’s Earl. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s ok. I put together a prototype of some praise-cancelling earplugs so the Scouts can camp here. They seem to be working ok.”

_(“We love your freckles! WE LOVE YOUR FRECKLES!”)_

Realizing that a column of ants is marching up his right leg, Cecil grudgingly opens his eyes and sits up, brushing them away. “Can I help you with something?” It’s his being-polite-to-a-stranger tone, minus most of the politeness.

Earl crouches across from him. “So… the opera house is opening tonight.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re going to be doing a big broadcast and all of that?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s your last one before… before you leave. So, kind of a big deal.”

“Yes.”  Sigh. “Earl, do you have a point?”

Earl makes a vague gesture in the direction of… all of Cecil. “Well, far be it from me to criticize your fashion choices - just barely spared by the sphere myself and all - but…. um.”

Cecil looks down. Lederhosen from Svitz, circa… whenever. Somewhat moth-eaten. Or something-eaten. And a traffic-cone-orange t-shirt advertising the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area. It has some strange white blotches on it. He may have used it to clean Khoshekh’s litter box at some point. “Yes? What are you saying?”

Earl does that “tightening his lips to keep from speaking unkindly” thing that he so often does around Cecil. “I know you have feelings about leaving Night Vale, and I know you don’t want to talk about them with me. But I’m not going to let you do your last show looking like that. It’s not what you would want.”

Cecil feels a tremor run through him at that last sentence, and glances over at Earl,  but his old friend seems oblivious to his own eerie turn of phrase. He’s prone to these kinds of pronouncements since his return, as if he’s become an occasional mouthpiece for the void. You just have to shake it off.

Earl stands and reaches out a hand. “Come on. Shave, shower, and then, I don’t know. Thrift shop? Ballet wardrobe raid? You tell me. I’m just here to help.”

Despite himself, Cecil takes the hand and allows himself to be helped to his feet. He keeps holding on as Earl leads him out of the forest and back, once more, into his town.


End file.
